The Bat
by Nerotashyk
Summary: A mythology reboot of the Batman Universe. Because of the devastating effect of a deadly virus, the United Kingdoms are put into quarantine. When the country is finally freed from the epidemic, London is left devastated to the hands of psychopaths, gangs and corrupted businessmen. The city needs more than a hero: an urban legend, a shadow haunting criminals. The city needs the Bat.
1. The Prologue

The glass shatters heavily as I pass through the large windows that compose the exterior walls of one of the city's biggest skyscraper. I feel it intensively ripping parts of my suit and cutting my skin and flesh where they aren't protected, a pain I am forced to ignore.

For a few seconds, I stay in mid-air, bending my legs and protecting my head. The debris of these transparent blades now splattering and flying away from me, I feel the scorching cold wind on my cheeks and mouth, flowing with my black coat. I open my eyes and find the sun at the edge of disappearing, inflaming the sky with projection of its fire and light. In a moment, it will have disappeared, and my city with its prisoners will plunge into the chaos of night. It is almost time for me, my other me, to make its entrance. I guess I'm a little early tonight, but I have my reasons.

The shock of adrenaline now delivered, I prepare for the second impact. My body hits the glass wall like a truck gone wild, and I continue my descent sliding down, only its inclination makes it hard to differentiate free fall from sliding: the building's not called the Shard for nothing: a giant and steep pyramidal form piercing from the flesh of the wounded city.

In an alarming amount of time my computer tells me I've already dropped about twenty meters. I turn around, looking up and fetching my pick from my utility belt. I raise my hand, another ten meters drop, preparing to stick the pick in the glass wall and hoping for it to stop my dramatic descent.

But I interrupt immediately my movement. Behind me, using the exit I just made, a green and rapid silhouette jumps in the air with rare expertise and confidence, something I do not show right now. He holds in his strong arm a state-of-the-art bow, and ready to be shot, a deadly shiny arrow. In an instant, with just a lightning little relaxation of his finger's tendon, the arrow is set loose, destined to pierce my body and my life simultaneously.


	2. The Pier

The temperature here on the wharf is freezing. Although I didn't expect anything any different from North London in January. Not to mention it's nearly 1 A.M. But it's not my main concern. I am here to observe, prevent and defend. It's my only role in this process. I won't touch anything; I never did and never will.

The two men in front of me, Joe and Mike, are checking the goods. They each take little packs one by one and weight them. They open carefully the plastic wrappings and, with small white spoons made for chemistry experiments, they sample a bit of white powder so they can proceed to the required tests. It's a very meticulous and stressful job, and they do it with an extreme seriousness. It's quite ridiculous, actually, to see two big black thugs with dark hoods, piercing on the eyebrow, long gothic style chains and tattoo all other their body play, no, experiment with such little material. They always take so much care with the merchandise, and maybe that's the only time when they actually care about something. But after all, this is their money. Cocaine. And for them, it's all about money, lots of money.

"Jesus Christ, it's fucking cold out here," proclaims Joe, standing back a bit to stretch.

"No shit Sherlock. Get back to work and shut up," replies Mike.

I laugh with sarcasm. "Look, the faster you do this, the faster you get outta here. Now come on, just a few more boxes," I say to Joe.

"Always Mr Brightside, eh Bruce?" says Joe ironically, "but you see Brucy, you're not the one checking the merchandise, and this is not your money, so shut up!"

"I'm only trying to make sure we all come back in one piece man, and you know just like me that lately it's more of a miracle than a job's done."

"Shut up! All of you. The boss is expecting us back at 2 A.M. He's gonna be pissed if we're not back in time again. You're better off listening to Bruce Joe," says Mike without even looking up.

I look around, as if searching for a prey. I do. Or am I the prey? It depends on which side do you observe the scene. It's all subjective. I'm hunting any little turbulent boy or rival gang that could interfere with the exchange, or steal the drugs. And they hunt me down, so they can access to the platform, take everything they can, kill everybody without too much resistance.

The cold wind whips my cheeks, burning them red like ember. I walk cautiously along the flimsy stretch of wood linking the boat charged with bags of coke to the wharf, looking down at my feet so as not to slip. The water of Regent's canal was still below me and steam rose above it from the cold. The night silence was uncanny, and the few lights on the wharf emitted an eerie glow that disturbed the darkness. Further down the quay, as the silhouettes of Mike and Joe are starting to sway ever so slightly as they conversed in low voices, constantly staring at their little spoons, I decide I should head back: there's no threat in the water… What did I expect?

I'm back on the wharf, heading back to my usual observation point, in other words, leaning on a black container with the words WAYNE ENTERPRISES painted majestically on it. In other words, next to my friend Feliks.

The snow makes it hard to see, sometimes impossible, and there could be hundreds of different hiding place on these docks. In a truck. Behind a container. On top of them. They have plenty of choices. Plenty of ways to attack us, exterminate us. We only have one: stand here and be conscious. Or be aimed at.

As I continue my observation, I stop my eyes on Roman Sionis, the leader of our ally gang. No, not ours actually, just the ally of the gang I work for. He's leaning against his car, a black Range Rover, smoking a cigarette through his black skin, as if he was supervising anything. Everything is black about him; his long trench coat, his shoes, his car, his gun and even the skin of his face. But he is not black by nature: he burnt his face so that he could become Black Mask. What a freak. He hates when we call him by his real name, and he takes a pervert pleasure in killing those who does. If you look closely, very closely at the back of his truck, you can still discern some residue of detached ropes. I can only imagine how terribly painful it would be to die being hauled onto the busy streets of the city to be finally run over by a car or a double-decked bus.

But still, even if I never actually talk to him, I call him Roman Sionis when I speak of him. For me, this masquerade is pure shit. Pure madness. But there are plenty of them: most of them are drug dealers or hit men. The Penguin, Deadshot or Poison Ivy, there are all the same to me. My mum once told me that when I was a kid, none of them existed. In fact, they wouldn't even have dared to exist: London was a much safer city, even one of the richest cities. But that was until the Clench incident: a major deathly epidemic that started in Wales and ended up killing millions of people around the world and causing a violent crash in the economy. As a result of being the home of the virus, the United Kingdoms were cut off from the world, leaving it ravaged and helpless. That's when the gang wars started. That's when it all went wrong. The only thing that mattered was to survive. Anarchy it was.

That's when Roman Sionis gained his power. Today he owns almost every illegal lab in London, and he's the biggest reseller in the country. I hate him for that. But I just can't afford to feel guilty to work in the drug business because of my family.

But tonight, Roman Sionis is not the proud and powerful dealer. Tonight, he is the scared little sheep. The uneasy but rapid movement of his eyes analyzing every little object of the environment and the painful wrinkles of concerned man on his burnt face are reflecting a terrifying amount of stress and fear. He never loses his grip on the handle of his gun: his arm is constantly inside his coat, his hand near his belt. The pressure here is at its higher level. But he's not the only one, everybody is on his guards. Eyes are moving quickly, sweeping the dock, looking at every boat passing by. All weapons are ready to be thrown out of there holster and to fire at any approaching men. There's gunpowder in the air, and who knows when the lighter will go on. We just know it will.

And we all know why we are this nervous. Someone dared to attack the Black Mask gang. Destroyed one of its biggest and most productive laboratory. Killed every one on the site. Stole dozens and dozens of cannabis and ecstasy. But this someone is not alone. A new organization was born. None of us really know anything about them, even the highest member of our felonious corporations, only that they kill a lot of people and that no one ever escaped from one of their raids. They are killing machines.

"Even tonight you don't have a gun Bruce?" It's Feliks, my team buddy. We work together all the time, always standing and fighting as a two. He saved my life multiple times, as I did. I don't know how to thank him for that really, because by saving me he saved my sister and my mother. But I guess we're kind of even since I stopped an arrow from piercing his right eye and make a fine tunnel through his brain. "Did I ever need one?" I answer ironically. It's my way to relax things around me. Get the tension down a little. It's a thing we do for each other, a sort of mutual gift.

Only today, he seems serious. I never saw him this serious. Feliks has some sort of magic powers, a superhuman ability more commonly known as luck. How many times was he saved by a passing car, a power failure or the door of an elevator closing a second before its hit by a wave of bullet, I can't count. He says he got it from his name. Feliks means "Luck" in polish. He got that right. That's mostly why others call him by several nicknames: the rabbit's leg, the four leaf clover… Whereas myself, I believe that deeply, he's fighting for his life. In some ways, we share the same story: his wife died four years ago, killed by some thug in search for a bit of money; he now lives alone with his two children, a boy and a girl. At night, when he has to join me and our dirty work, he puts them to bed, turn on the TV in the living room and closes the door so they are safe inside, if only they were. In this city, no one is.

"Man, I know you don't like them… but, tonight I have some orders…" He shows me a P99 from under his black coat, "Take it".

I hesitate, my hand reaches slowly for the handle but I stop. "It's just…" I only start to be cut a second later, "I don't care what you think Bruce. Not tonight. You take it, and be prepared to shoot. It's for everybody's sake."

I'm now holding the handle and I hate it. Is it really for everybody's sake, even for the man I'll be shouting right between the eyes? But even so, I'm holding the handle, and hopefully I won't have to use it. And I didn't use it. Nothing happened, or at least nothing worse than we'd expected.

"John! Anything else?" asks Mike.

"No, that's the last of them. All we got is 100 boxes of coke."

"What do you mean?" cries Mike.

He turns towards Sionis's Lieutenant.

"What the fuck? A hundred boxes? That's less than half what we agreed on!"

"Look," says the Lieutenant with a heavy Hispanic accent, "I forgot to tell ya. We heard that four of Baldelli's shipments were lost last month. The guy's ruined now and..."

"So? Who gives a shit about Baldelli? Less competition for you, right?" interrupts Mike.

"I was saying," continues the Lieutenant, "that we can't afford losing shipments like that either. So we carry less. Several other gangs have reported missing shipments and men. And you know very well that our labs were heisted, and we lost almost half of our men. We think we have a new guy in town, and whoever he is, he is not to be fucking underestimated. And apparently, he's now going on the field, intercepting deliveries"

"Yeah, but that's your problem. What am I gonna tell my boss?"

"Calm down, you're making too much noise," interjects John.

"I'm not gonna fucking calm down unless you're willing to tell Shaughnessy why he ain't got his coke," shouts Mike.

"I understand you're upset," said the Lieutenant in a more soft voice, "but we can ship the rest to you later in the week. We prefer to take precautions. I'm sure a crime boss such as Shaughnessy will understand that it's safety before business."

Mike shoots at him with fiery eyes, and I know this is going to end dirty, but I wasn't counting on the fear of the Black Mask.

"Mike is it?" asks Sionis as he steps on his finished cigarette, leaving his comfy spot to speak up, "you've got a problem with my merchandise; you come talk to me, ok?"

He's now getting closer and closer to Mike, face to face, or rather face to burnt face. Feliks plunges his hand under his coat, and I suppose I should do the same: ever Mike back's off, ever there's a fight coming, and in an open space like that, we all know it would be bloody.

"Now Mike," continues Sionis now his face nearly touching his opponent's, just a bit above it, "look me in the eyes and tell me, like a real man, that you're not happy with my services and you fucking want a fight?"

Tension is still building up, and everybody's taking slow steps, hands on belts, towards the two men, which seem to be in the middle of an intense eye-staring contest.

"Fine," Mike says finally, taking a few steps back, "but we're only paying you for how much you've brought tonight."

Sionis gives him a threatening glare.

"Alright, get outta here. We're done," the Mask says, walking back towards his car.

"Same for us boys," adds Mike, making his way towards our truck.

"Tell your boss to stay safe and lay low," adds the Lieutenant, as if courtesy was needed.

Mike stops and turns around to look at the man.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say," he says.

He then turns around again and continues towards the cocaine-loaded truck, taking no note of Feliks, John, and I as he passed us with his head low.

We can easily tell he's quite frustrated already, so we follow him as he passed.

"You two get the rear," Mike says to John and Feliks.

"You want me to drive?" I asks.

"No kid, you get home. You did good tonight. Just get back to your Ma and Pa," replies Mike, patting me on my shoulder.

"Thanks man."

"You need a lift home, kid?" he asks.

"No. I'll walk. A little night air never hurt anyone. Besides, I'm not even sure Dad's asleep yet, and I don't really want to run into him. Good luck telling Shaughnessy about…well, you know."

Mike lights a cigarette as he speaks.

"Let's hope I don't need it."

I chuckle. Jack climbs into the driver's seat of the truck and started the engine.

"See you soon kid," he says.

Before I had time to respond, the truck lurches forward, and then speeds away, out of sight.

I wait until I cannot hear it anymore to take one last look around the deserted quay. Here isn't anything to be seen. Except one, tiny plastic bag of cocaine that seems to have slipped out of a box. I bend down and pick it up, and hold it in my hands for a moment.

"Waste of money," I murmur.

I throw the bag into the canal and watch the rings of water spread out around the spot where it landed. Then I turn around and start down the quay into the darkness, whistling softly as I go, a melancholic air from a time I've never known.


End file.
